


The Nonexistent Perks of Having a Personal Conman

by experimentaldrama



Category: Gintama
Genre: Blood, Brotherhood and Sisterhood, Comedy, Gen, Joui War, Profanity, Senselessness and Stupidity, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9782036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/experimentaldrama/pseuds/experimentaldrama
Summary: The platoons of the soldiers under the four generals are starved of many things; food, a sense of safety ... consistent leadership. They'd all agree, however, that they'd rather have their exposed blood freeze in the below-zero February air than continue to die from blood poisoning. Sakamoto promises to deliver.





	

Sakamoto sat at the bench uncomfortably, trying idly to remove a bit of food from his teeth as his companion wringed his hands.

“What are you doing?” the bearded man asked him. Sakamoto was shifting like he had ants in his pants. Anyone who didn’t know him might’ve been put off, maybe a little condescending to the frizz-haired guy, after Sakamoto groaned and pushed himself forward childishly. Those who knew him only whacked him.

“Trying to get out a wedgie. Proceed.”

“You know we don’t have the funds, Sakamoto. You know that I can’t. . .”

Sakamoto’s laugh hit the walls hard like gunshots. If he hadn’t the funds, he thought happily, he shouldn’t have shown his face.

\--

The camp was in chaos. Stampedes of soldiers with everything from raccoon bites to laser-through-the-stomach holes came down the boardwalks – which Gintoki had quickly learned how to fix. With every new thing their soldiers learned to stomach – wading through algae-green ponds after having lost a shoe (it’s amazing how accurate the media can get with these wilderness excursions), pelting Amanto forces with twine slingshots and then turning tail (their feared generals were deadly and awkwardly creative), or having scatter-drills wherein the troops would learn how to evenly spread themselves across the terrain in order to escape extinction of the platoon (this even included identifying land that gave way quickly, so one could bury oneself alive) – well, the injuries were more diverse than normal gunshot wounds. Those soldiers would waste away in both heart and body.

Winter was the worst time for war, along with spring, summer, and autumn. But having survived early February with no gauze or antiseptic, what threatened to kill a soldier more than looming doom of being turned to mist by foreign species was blood poisoning from a nail through the foot. Even the songs hummed and anthems chanted by the pessimistic and optimistic alike wasn’t enough to alleviate the pain of an infected and exposed minor wound. The Shiroyasha drank blood as much as water, they said, and yet one of his soldiers had jokingly told him that poisoning happened when a ghost entered a wound. Now he was twitchy about all of his exposed cuts and bruises, and all of his men and women were much too scared to ask whether he was joking.

“Ghost-blood,” he told the Noble of Fury, one night. “That’ll kill each and every one of us.”

“Sh,” Katsura said, rolling his eyes.

“I couldn’t be surer. Now it’s but a question of whether my blood will freeze to the air first or if the ghosts’ll kill me. Attention,” he said, raising his voice to the crowd around the fire. Many had gone to their motley tents, but still many had returned after finding the heat of the fire and of others more sustaining than their thin blankets. “We’ll be singing the Doraemon song on repeat in place of campfire songs, everyone.”

Everyone laughed. “Shut up, for once,” said Katsura, but he seemed as cold as any of them.

“Hey, has anyone had sex recently?” a lady’s voice called.

Gintoki furrowed his brow in amazement, voice falsely pensive. “Why’ya ask that, whoever?”

“Well, I just think it’d be cool,” said she slowly. “If the semen froze. Has anyone tried it?”

The crowd giggled. Another cocky man said, “No one better to ask than Sakata-san and Katsura-san, right?”

A match had been set to the soldiers, and talking burst out. Some were so closely set to the fire that they bent forward laughing and their hair erupted in sparks. Gintoki scoffed. He’d have reminded them that he could personally decide each of their whereabouts in battles, and some were less desirable than others. But even he saw they had limited window to make their fun.

\--

Takasugi had watch that night. Not, he’d have argued darkly, that there was much to watch. Proficiency in battle didn’t equate to night vision, and he was no cat with oval eyes cutting through the thick blackness. But still, he rested his sword next to his clothed knees, fixed his eyes on the horizon (or the space where the black cut away to slightly less black) and froze to death.

There was a peace to doing what had previously worked, and thus what had a chance to work in the future. And even further there was a group wide assurance to having the generals go through the same paces as a foot soldier – both of these were the reason that the four still insisted upon a night watch, when it usually only had them losing sleep, and personally added themselves to the rotation, even when their time could be better used planning or practicing.

Takasugi was still scanning when there was a ripple in what he could not see; a figure that slipped through the brush to the very doors Takasugi was supposed to be guarding. Takasugi sat up.

“Zura? Takasugi? Hey?”

“. . . I’m watching, you idiot. Didn’t they tell you how you were supposed to get in?” The door was for show.

“Ahahaha. I forgot.”

“If you forgot, you’re going to have to climb up.”

“Serio-ooo-ooously?”

Sakamoto continued to whine a while before his black figure began to scale the wall, as loudly as anything else he did, complete with grunts which put any hog to shame.

“Y-y-y-you. . .”

“ _You_ are an embarrassment,” Takasugi scowled, as the man in short gasps caught his breath. Takasugi could smell his odd perfume from feet away. “Did you get it, or not?”

Sakamoto’s face changed instantly, even in the light where he was made only of one tone of gray. “Did you doubt me?” he exclaimed.

\--

“I’m back, everyone,” called Sakamoto from very far away, with his voice carrying on the sharp sides of the grass as if a whistle.

“Is that Sakamoto?”

“Sakamoto’s back?”

A whisper grew among the people. “Jesus,” said Gintoki. “I wish you idiots were in sync like this during battle, too.”

Gintoki didn’t bother to turn, but before he knew it Sakamoto’s forearms were wrapped around his neck in a chokehold.

“Hands off,” complained he, with the fire making his eyes balls of hellfire threatening to be extinguished, instead of vials of rust. “Unless it’s to give me a soothing massage!”

“Nope!” Sakamoto happily said. “But your _hero_ did score you some medicine n’ gauze!”

There was a quick silence before the campfire erupted into hoots. “Yeah, Sakamoto-san!”

Katsura’s face flattened and relaxed with the relief that soon followed Sakamoto’s words. He mumbled, probably distracted again, “But, if anything, I’m the hero, Sakamoto. You’re green. Gintoki would be the villain.”

Takasugi stood as he always did, in the spot behind Sakamoto – favoring the shadows and, in Gintoki’s opinion, _fake deep._

“Pour him a drink!” someone called, ushering their smuggled bottle of whiskey to the logs they’d pulled up to sit on. They popped the bottle open, and Sakamoto made full use of every one of his teeth as he smiled, brought an arm around an unsuspecting Takasugi, and dove into his soldiers.

Fewer of them would die that February than the four had foreseen and feared.

\--

The crates of supplies were received with glee, and delivered by the wealthy man, that Sakamoto had “convinced” to renew their funding, in tumbling trucks. The wrinkles in Katsura’s forehead from frowning eased slightly, and Gintoki flicked the spot where he said that Zura was dying in.

Sakamoto puffed out his stomach like a triumphant kid. Some licked their dry lips and felt at places where, as they were deemed in order of rising urgency, painful wounds had gone untreated. Though those would leave folds of scarred, white tissue, with the promise of rubbing alcohol, cream, and bandages, they would not be fatal. Others only felt joy as they felt places where they’d lost toes and fingers from frostbite and rejoiced at the thought of the thicker blankets that Sakamoto promised.

"I love you, boxes," Gintoki said tonelessly. "Save me from the ghost-blood, boxes."

Takasugi, Gintoki, Katsura, and Sakamoto checked each box, easing open the tops with a sturdy stick’s leverage. They did not bother to do it in private, since they’d agreed a public unveiling of the supplies would do wonders to morale.

“Emergency tourniquets,” said Takasugi lowly as he checked the grouping of giant wooden crates. A deafening cheer went up from the various soldiers.

Some of the soldiers were almost dancing with delight. Gintoki might’ve joked they should switch to a ballroom dance career if they’d rather hold hands than hold a sword. Instead, he said, “Antiseptics and drugs.” He held up a tube, as if to say, _this is_ our _army._ This one elicited a particularly loud string of yells.

Katsura raised his tool and pulled open a box labeled, “wound dressing”.

“This one should be good,” Sakamoto said confidently, the wind blowing his brown hair to a tangle. “I was assured that it was Amanto-grade bandages. Who knows what they’ve thought up?”

Almost gingerly, light came into the crate. But Katsura frowned. “I don’t see these being useful, Sakamoto.”

“Huh? Whatcha mean?” He walked over. A little “oh” escaped his mouth, as airy as a sigh.

Both Takasugi and Gintoki followed, and soon the entirety of the camp was pushing to get a view of the mystery box. One made the mistake of trying to shove at Takasugi – they were soon of the body of people in need of the first aid that Sakamoto delivered on.

In the box glinted a shipment of something that looked strangely like gauze, but no longer or thicker than any of their forefingers, and made of plastic with only a bandage in center.

“. . .This isn’t wound dressing, Sakamoto,” Katsura said.

“This isn’t gauze, Tatsuma,” Gintoki said, with the tone of voice he reserved for addressing foreign leaders and treacherous allies. Six people knocked down the person behind them in an effort to back away.

“But, guys . . . all the other stuff . . . plus, Band-Aids aren’t useless. . . huh?”

Takasugi had grabbed him angrily, nearly lifting him off of the ground. In his mind’s eye, Sakamoto pictured the three dogpiling onto him like teenagers with a bad attitude – which they were. So he tripped Takasugi, rolled out of the crowd, and hit the ground running. 

"You all. . . Behave!" Katsura ordered before he shot after his companions in pursuing the ineffective conman.

Their responsive men and women stood perfectly still as they disappeared over the ridge. "They say behave," one sighed finally. "They're the ones who insist on playing tag."


End file.
